


Softly

by arkosic



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Gen, Non-graphic depiction of violence, War-Time Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 13:06:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkosic/pseuds/arkosic
Summary: Innocence in wartime is not an intangible concept, by some definitions.





	Softly

They clung together in the wreckage of their home, trying to breathe softly, softly, because they could hear the footsteps crunching against broken glass and splintered wood, and it was only getting closer.

_Shallow breaths_ , she whispered to him, and he nodded against her fur. It was hard to breathe softly with his heart thumping so strong, and all he wanted to do was suck in a big gulp of air to maybe slow it down. Maybe ease the tightness. Maybe make the growing ache go away. But no, softly, softly. That was the only way.

The air was heavy with a thousand drifting remnants of what had once been tall and strong, and they tickled at his nose and throat, clung to his lashes when he peeked out from behind her golden form, now dulled by a second coat of dust and grime. He could feel it settling on him just as steadily, and wondered if they would be able to tell him from the spars of wood arching from the ground like gravestone markers. Just another piece of wood; look, it was not even breathing!

Someone's death split the air a little way away, a harsh crack unmuffled by the thickened air, and they clutched each other tighter. A round ball of boy and dæmon so linked you could not tell where fur ended and hair began. Eyes squeezed shut and hearts thumping, shaking together.

_Shallow breaths, Joachim!_ she insisted, but he could feel the tightness in his chest gripping harder. What if all that dust was gathering inside of him, coating his nose and throat every time he took a tiny breath, and slowly, slowly blocking him up until he tried to take a big breath and there was only dirt. Buried alive, from the inside out. He wanted to breathe, he needed to breathe, _he couldn't breathe...!_

He breathed, short and sharp and hard, and even as Herescha silently wailed, his breath hitched, that dust catching and holding his throat - and he coughed.

He clapped a hand over his mouth immediately, but the sound kept coming, even louder from behind his smothering palm. It shook them free of each other, and his eyes were watering too strongly to obey her frantic tugs, her desperate pleas for them to run, run away from the footsteps that were now even closer and faster. Wood creaked as it was shouldered aside, and bright light streamed in, making him wince and turn his head away from the forms outlined against it. Herescha bristled beside him, coyote-teeth bared as she readied for defence. But the nearest dæmon was out of range, a mink high on the uniformed shoulder of its soldier.

Joachim squinted through streaming eyes up the cold-faced man, crouched in the dirt with nowhere to run. He stopped breathing when he saw the gun levelled his way.

"Change your form." It was brusque, disinterested; an order.

He barely heard it, let alone understood it. All he saw was the gloved thumb raising and pulling down on some out-jutted metal, cocking the gun. The mink watched with bright eyes, ears swivelling in consistent alertness.

"Change your form!"

And then Herescha slunk backwards, shrinking as she did so to drop into the large-eared fennec fox form, creeping to his side. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, and they both stared upwards silently.

The gun was lowered, and the soldier said, "A child," over his shoulder, jerked his head in a silent signal. Without a further glance they moved along, dusty boots digging into the ground as they continued their march. The message was clear; he was of no interest.

Some curiosity pulled at him, and despite Herescha's quiet, near-tearful, "Please, Joachim, let us go," he crawled forwards (slowly, slowly) to the edge of the shattered rubble that had been his home, and peered out at the prowling soldiers, so clean and crisp and coloured, as though the dust did not dare touch them. It was best to look in this direction, best to look at where they had not yet come; he did not want to look behind.

A soldier with a sleek and beautiful dog-dæmon hailed the others as his dæmon pawed at a slanted slat of wood. They swarmed around it, and for a moment he couldn't see anything, until suddenly they parted to throw a girl to the ground, spitting and cursing, her cobra-dæmon spreading its hood and hissing menacingly at the mink, still tucked away safely on its perch.

The soldier raised his gun again, and issued that same strange request. "Change your form."

Joachim waited patiently for the dæmon to do so, waited for the soldiers to move on.

"Change your form!"

And then Herescha whispered, "He cannot!" just as the snake-dæmon cried, "Alita, I'm so sorry...!" and Joachim threw himself to the ground, to the dirt, as death rang high and loud once again, and someone's breathing stopped.

They clung to each other in the wreckage of their home, breathing softly, softly, because anything more was bound to be loud when there was no other sound to be heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Boy howdy I never thought I'd look at a ten-year old fic and go 'actually, not half bad', but here we are I guess. Enjoy the minimally edited, glorious melodrama of my youth and long-ago ponderance that there were some rather unsettling (ho ho) implications that could come out of having one's soul on display.


End file.
